Maria breathed heavily as she stared into that unnerving golden gaze. His smile was as devastating as she remembered, as seductive and as charming. But her heart fired like a cannon, warning of trouble, when she remembered how quickly the sinner had lost that fake smile and launched at her, wrapping his hands around her throat. Even now she could feel the bruising grip crushing her windpipe. She no doubt had marks on her skin. It hurt her to swallow.
Maria closed her eyes. Last night, or whenever that was, she had thought he would kill her. When she had lost consciousness, she thought she would die. She didn’t know what he wanted with her alive. Father Quinn and Father Murray had told her he was a murderer. But he had kept her. She blanched at what he might do to her next.
Raphael looked different from the previous night. He was in casual clothing, for one. His messy dark locks were unstyled. Like this, he looked young and kind. But Maria had borne witness to the monster lurking underneath his pretty façade. She wouldn’t be fooled again. For some reason, God had spared her once more. She pulled at the binds tying her hands behind her back. Tried to push her tongue against the gag and tape on her mouth. But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t scream. She was mute and immobilized. She tried to stave off the panic that was threatening to disable her. But the lack of freedom was like heavy quicksand that dragged her under. The iron-clad clutch that grabbed her by the ankle and started pulling her down. Down into her past, one she had fought for years to forget . . .
Maria blinked. Her eyes were sore. She tried to move, but something held her hands in place, her legs. Her mind was fogged. She tried to remember where she was, what was happening. Like the first signs of rain, drop after sporadic drop began to seep into her consciousness. Memories of a man walking into their home. Memories of the man shooting her father in the head, his body dropping to the ground, eyes wide open and watching Maria as she screamed on the floor, staring at her father, who had only minutes before brought them popcorn, as the movie they had chosen to watch still played.
Maria’s brother ran for their mother, who was trying to fend off the heavy fists of the man. But just as Mark tried to reach for the attacker’s gun, the man fired, and Mark dropped to his knees. Maria screamed as her brother held his stomach and collapsed to the side. His hand reached out for her. Maria scrambled to where he lay and managed to hold his hand just as her brother’s eyes frosted over and he exhaled a stuttered final breath. Maria didn’t see the attacker kill her mother, but she heard the single gunshot.
Maria was rolled onto her back and, in her state of numbness and shock, was bound and gagged and shoved into a car . . .
Raphael reached for Maria, ripping her from the darkness of the past. She flinched as he cradled her in his arms. He looked down at her. “I won’t hurt you, little rose.”
Maria didn’t know what to think as the softly spoken loving words fell from his lips. She had never been on the receiving end of an endearment from a man before. Maria remembered the savage expression that had torn apart his face as he held her up by her throat in the private room of the club. Her nerves were frayed by the two very different sides of this man. Lord, give me strength to endure this test, whatever it may be.
Raphael took her into a large ornate room. It was bigger than most apartments she had seen. Perhaps some houses. The bright winter sun peeked in through the floor-to-ceiling period windows that peppered the far wall. Raphael, with the gentleness of a saint, brought her to a padded red velvet chair. He placed her on the seat and sat on the end of the bed. He pulled her closer and smiled.
“I want to untie you, talk to you. But you can’t scream.” He nodded, trying to make his point. “Do you understand? I need you to be silent.” Raphael’s attention fell to Maria’s neck. His nose flared and he gritted his teeth, as if he were angry. Reaching out, he ran his finger over her skin. She flinched when it hurt. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said as he pulled away. “Your neck is too perfect to mark.” He shook his head and ran his hands over his beautiful face. “You were there and you were perfect and . . . you were lying.” Agony morphed his beautiful face again, only for her to see him fight it—deep breaths and clenched jaw—and adopt a visage full of guilt. Maria didn’t know if this was a ruse or whether he seriously regretted hurting her. A flicker of hope burst in her chest. He felt guilt. Guilt and shame. Maybe he wasn’t so far gone that Maria couldn’t be of help.
“You were holding that rosary.” His eyes lost some of their kindness, taking Maria from her thoughts. His mood changes were a turbulent twister, shifting an unpredictable path in a second, giving one no time to prepare for the destruction. “How are you connected to them?” Fathers Quinn and Murray. He must have been talking about Fathers Quinn and Murray. They had told her this killer knew them. She didn’t know how or why; she hadn’t asked. Maria had no idea how Raphael killed, his preferences or his motives. She had entered into this church-ordered task blindly. As a novitiate it hadn’t been her business to question anything. Nuns never doubted a priest. “You’re a woman. How did they get you on their side?”
Raphael didn’t know she was about to become a nun, pledge herself to the church. He saw a woman, not a bride of Christ. Father Quinn was her superior; it was her duty to obey him. And she trusted him. She wouldn’t tell Raphael anything of the priests who were only trying to do God’s work.
Raphael came further forward. Maria could see the outline of tattoos under his white shirt. The material was thin and betrayed the many artful black lines. She couldn’t make out what the design was. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair. She smelled his scent—fresh water and salt. It shouldn’t have been attractive to her. It was. She shouldn’t have found him attractive, period, but she did. Humans were imperfect, and often did and felt things that they shouldn’t. But this man was evil wrapped up in a beautiful package. Every exquisite feature he boasted was a mask for the wretchedness that prowled underneath. Maria prayed there was a hint of good that remained hidden deep. She prayed that she could appeal to that good.
“I want to know your name. I want to help you. I don’t want to hurt you.” His golden eyes narrowed, half threat, half plea. “Don’t force me to hurt you. Things won’t go well for you if you do.” Maria’s stomach flipped at the casually spoken warning. Raphael reached for the tape over her mouth. “Do you promise not to make a sound?” Maria nodded, knowing she had no other choice. She knew how quickly he could turn and didn’t want to risk it. She needed to keep this amiable Raphael on side. She didn’t want to meet the evil Raphael again—that moral-less man terrified her. Fear would keep her silent, if that was what he required, until she could work out a way to escape.
“Good girl.” Raphael smiled proudly and began to peel back the tape. Maria never took her eyes off him the entire time. The tape pulled at her skin, it hurt, but she didn’t even flinch. She didn’t want him to know what caused her pain in case he used it against her. When the tape was off, Maria inhaled a long breath. Raphael tensed, as if waiting for her to scream. She didn’t.
After a few seconds of observing her closely, Raphael sat back on the edge of the bed. “Are you thirsty?” She nodded. Raphael walked to a small fridge on a nearby cherry wood desk, took out a bottle of water, and unscrewed the lid. He carefully brought it to her mouth. Maria parted her lips, never taking her eyes off the killer as she drank down the refreshing mouthfuls. His pupils dilated as he watched her swallow, his gaze fixed on the subtle movement of her throat. She licked her lips after she was done. She didn’t understand her appeal to this man. Maria never paid much attention to looks; she had met beautiful people that were ugly on the inside. She knew she wasn’t overly pretty. In truth she was very plain. She didn’t rival Raphael in terms of beauty, but the way he watched her made her feel like a Florentine Renaissance masterpiece at which people flocked to galleries to marvel.
Raphael pulled the bottle away and took a seat. He leaned back on his hands, the action making the lean muscles in his arms flex. “What’s your name?”
She saw no sense in lying. “Maria,” she said quietly. Her voice was weak and hoarse from the bruising on her throat. “My name is Maria.” At least, that was the name she had chosen and been referred to by for years. It was too painful to remember the girl she was before.
“Maria,” Raphael echoed, her name rolling around his lush mouth. He smiled, revealing dimples that cut into his stubbled cheeks. Raphael leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “And why were you in the club last night? Do you expect me to believe it was because you went to play?”
“I was there to play,” she said, more confidently than she felt. She had vowed her silence to Father Murray and Father Quinn. She would not falter in that regard. She would not break the vow. She would die before she did. Maria had forgone her possessions when she entered the monastery. Her word was all she had in the world.
“Mmm . . .” Raphael pondered, crossing one leg over the other and running his hands over his face in wonderment. “Then it was your first time?”
Maria refused to allow her nerves to best her. She had a role to play. And play it she would. Father Quinn needed this man off the streets and locked away so he couldn’t hurt anyone again. Maria was confident Father Quinn would help Raphael, help him see the error of his ways. She prayed that if they were found by the priests, they could set Raphael on the path to redemption.
Everyone deserved the darkness to be lifted from their souls. Raphael was no different. Maria didn’t know what her future was now. But as she studied Raphael’s beautiful face, she wondered if she could help him. Be some semblance of light in his overcast world.
“It was my first time. I applied for the club. They thought a virgin might appeal to some of its more experienced members,” Maria said, sticking to the script she and Father Quinn had planned.
Raphael’s eyes flared and his lips parted. The movement was subtle, but Maria caught it. She had grown adept at seeing the smaller gestures people made. The little tells that indicated if someone would hurt her or not. She’d had no choice.
“You’re a virgin?” His voice was deep.
“Yes.” Maria hung her head. She wasn’t acting in her timidity. This was real.
Raphael leaned closer. “And what did you want from the club?” His head tipped to the side. He looked breathtakingly beautiful in this position, his long lashes framing his alluring eyes. Raphael’s beauty was sin personified. Maria almost revealed the truth of what he had asked her. She chastised herself for her weakness. For being drawn in by his pretty face and sensual voice. “You wanted to be tied down, strapped up . . . your pussy deflowered by a man in leather with a penchant for pain?” His words were crass, but his voice was silk. Sailing into her ears like an expensive black sheet caught in a cool breeze.
This is how he does it, Maria realized. How he lures his victims in. His voice, his smiles . . . his addictive scent.
“I . . .” Maria searched for an answer that he would believe. “I wanted to be . . . awakened in a non-conventional way.”
Raphael exhaled a long breath as if her answer pleased him, but his eyes narrowed in suspicion. She kept eye contact.
“How old are you?”
Again, Maria saw no reason to lie. The fewer lies she gave, the less she would have to remember. Her mother always warned her that to lie one must have a perfect memory. “Twenty-one. Almost twenty-two.” She tried to guess Raphael’s age. He was young too. Too young, in her opinion, to live the deviant life he did. Maria couldn’t understand how someone so young could want to kill, to rob someone of the rest of their life.
She wondered whose home they were in. It was grand and screamed of money and status. It couldn’t have been Raphael’s. Not unless he inherited such a place. But what would Maria know? For all her guesses and musings, Raphael could have been a filthy-rich businessman who liked to kill on the side. It would explain how he paid off the authorities as Father Quinn had said. Before she thought better of it, she asked, “And how old are you?”
Raphael smirked at her moment of boldness. She wondered if it was because she was tied to a chair, playing a dangerous game with a predator, was bound and imprisoned, yet had the courage to ask such a thing. “How old do you think I am, little rose?”
Maria didn’t know why he kept calling her that. From the way his tongue wrapped around the word “rose,” she knew it must have had some kind of significance, but she couldn’t even begin to guess what. She shook off the question of the endearment and said, “Twenty-four.”
“Close.” Raphael shrugged. “I’m twenty-five.”
Maria thought back to the blond woman at the club. She must have been fifty or more, her true age disguised by the surgery she’d had done to her face. They hadn’t looked right together at the time. He could have been her son. Or maybe that was part of his alternative lifestyle. Maybe he liked older women.
Or maybe he had no preference over whom he killed, as long as he could.
The way Raphael was looking at her right now, Maria knew that couldn’t be true. He was transfixed. Could barely take his attention away from her for a second.
“What’s your pleasure, Maria?” He stood, pressing his hands onto the chair arms beside her. “Tell me, how do you like to play?” He was breathless, and had been hanging on her every word since he had brought her back to his rooms.
“However you want.”
“Careful, little rose.” Raphael tutted and shook his head. “You have no idea what you’re asking for. You know nothing of my particular desires.”
Maria was glad her hands were tied behind her back. They were trembling so hard as she tried to decipher what he meant by that. She couldn’t even imagine what a killer would like sexually. Nothing she could ever envision, she was sure.
Raphael was staring at her, fire in his eyes, as he waited for her response. This was it. The point of no return. She was balancing on a deadly precipice. But she knew there was only one choice. She had to see this through. Maria thought of the martyrs she admired. Her namesakes. They died for their faith, for what they believed was right in the eyes of the Lord. She could do the same. If she did this, giving herself over to Raphael for the sake of the innocent, then she could face God knowing she served Him well. She would never face Him as a coward with regret suffocating her heart. Like Father Quinn had said, giving yourself to the church required love and sacrifice. One cannot love without sacrifice.
This would be hers.
And maybe . . . just maybe, she could appeal to the good left inside him. Like Jesus walked with the sinners and the damned, she could do the same. Maria had never believed that mankind was born evil. As she looked at Raphael, she wondered what had happened in his life to cause him to travel such a brutal and cruel path. Her stomach tightened with hope . . . hope that maybe she could offer him comfort in some way that could release some of the evil that consumed his soul.
Meeting Raphael’s eyes, Maria sat up, trying to look more confident than she felt. “I want you to show me pleasure, in the way you like it, no matter where your particular desires lean. I want you to control me . . . I want you to show me the way, in whichever way you want. I want to please you. I want to be used, and I want you to be the one I serve.”
Raphael’s cheeks flushed. His chest heaved, and Maria knew that her words had penetrated deep within him, struck a chord in his blackened heart. Raphael reached out and took a strand of her long hair in his hands. Maria watched him as he idly wrapped the blond hair around his finger, from base to tip, over the cotton that was already there—was always there. His breathing deepened, grew more labored the tighter he pulled. His finger began to turn blue from the constriction of blood. His pupils dilated.
Snapping out of his daze, Raphael dropped her hair and said, “You’ll give yourself over to me, little rose. You’ll do as I say, and never question me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Raphael stroked his hand over her head, his fingers ghosting down the length of her hair. “Then convince me. Make me believe you want it. I won’t touch you until you do. I’m not into raping women, little rose. You have to want it as much as I do.” The tendons in his hands were pronounced as he gripped the chair arms tightly. “I want you to need me. To need what only I can give you.”
Maria didn’t know how to do what he asked. She was unskilled in any form of seduction and ignorant in the matters of sex. She was confused and out of her depth. More than confused about why he hadn’t questioned her further on the priests and her connection to them. He hadn’t asked her why they sent her into the club. He ignored it all . . . he only focused on her and her request for him to school her with his lustful appetite. He was abandoning everything he should be asking to sate his dark desires.
His damned soul was governed by lust. He saw nothing but the pleasure that awaited him. Cared naught for the truth outside of these four walls and Maria’s body that he would use. Even through her fear, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for Raphael. What must it be like to live a life of such darkness?
“Raphael,” she whispered and edged herself forward on the seat. She looked at him through her lowered lashes and spoke softly. “I want you to teach me.” She breathed deeply, and she was encouraged when his eyes fell to her rising chest. “I want you to show me pleasure. Your way. Any way you want. You choose and I’ll obey. I give you my consent, Raphael. And I won’t take it back. No matter how you push me. I want it all. I want it all . . . with and from you.”
Raphael stood up, towering over her as she remained seated and bound. Lifting her to stand before him, his hands under her arms to keep her steady, he said, “You’re mine, Maria, my little rose.” He leaned down and pressed a single gossamer kiss on her cheek—the forbidden, foreign touch sent shivers down Maria’s spine. “And I will break you. I will make it so you can’t breathe without me. Can’t awaken without seeing my face in your mind. You’ll dream of me . . . and I’ll consume you. And when all is said and done, I’ll own you. You’ll never be rid of me. You’ll give me all I have ever wanted. Dreamed of. Finally . . . my little rose.”
Maria heard his words, but she also caught the truth underneath. He would kill her. She was sure of that now. Raphael would kill her. She didn’t know how or when, but Maria felt the heavy weight of the reaper on her back, hovering, patiently waiting for the moment to strike.
Unless she could get through to him first. Minister to the good she knew he held inside. Use his greatest desire—lust—as the tool to try and help him. Perhaps, even save him.
“We need to get you clean.” Raphael reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. Maria jumped, her body freezing with fear. That pleased him. She knew it as she felt him hardening against her thigh. Raphael hissed as though he were in pain, but he took hold of her hands and cut through the binds. Maria moaned in relief as blood began to swell into the starved limbs. She brought her numb arms to her front and stared at the welts the binds had made. Like Christ, she thought. The stigmata. That vision empowered her and fueled her veins with courage and peace.
Raphael lifted her and placed her on the bed as though she weighed nothing. He ran the tip of the knife down one of her bare legs. Maria sucked in a breath at the cold touch of steel and watched him cut through the ties at her feet. The same ache she had felt in her hands burst into her legs. But Raphael’s warm hands began massaging her ankles, her arch, her toes. His hands on her body made her heart miss a beat. No one had touched her naked skin for years, and the last one who did . . .
Maria closed her eyes and forced herself to rid her brain of that memory. When her eyes opened, Raphael had stood and was looking down at her, waiting. He held out his hand. “Get up.” Maria did as he said. Her feet still felt numb, but she managed to find balance. “You will shower, take all of this makeup off your face.” He skirted his fingers over her still-curly hair. “And all of the gunk from your hair. I want it natural. I want to see it as it is meant to be.”
Maria panicked. Was he going to watch her shower? Be in the bathroom with her, see her naked body? She knew he would soon, but faced with the prospect, Maria felt cold fear rush through her.
Raphael pulled a chair from against the wall and sat down opposite the bathroom door. “I’ll wait here for you to finish. I’ll put clothes in there for you to wear. Then you’ll come out to me and sit on this seat. And you will wait for my instruction like a good little rose.”
Maria moved in the direction of the bathroom. Raphael’s eyes tracked her as he went to the closet and came back with a black t-shirt. It must have been his. He placed it on the black marble bathroom counter. Just as he was about to leave, he turned to her, death and hell in his golden eyes. “Try to escape, make a single noise that betrays your presence here, and you will be punished. And not the type of punishment you will enjoy. There’ll be pain. Lots of unbearable pain.”
Terror struck her like a bolt of lightning in a summer rainstorm. Terror of what this man was capable of. He dragged his thumb over her bottom lip. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you disobey. Don’t make me hurt you, little rose. I simply want your pleasure.” Then, like a switch being flicked, Raphael smiled his warm smile and said softly, “Make sure you clean the makeup off. You’ll be much more beautiful without it.”
Raphael left her alone with her nerves, her anxiety, and her utter distress. She closed the door—there was no lock. Walking to the large shower, Maria turned the knob to the highest setting. Steam billowed around the room, sticking to her skin. The fog reminded her of the confusion clogging her mind. “You must see this through, Maria,” she whispered. Moving to the large mirror, she wiped the steam off the glass and looked up at herself. Her makeup was still on her face, although her eyes were rimmed with black from where the eyeliner and mascara had run. The curls in her hair had dropped into clumps resembling rats’ tails, and her red lipstick had stained her lips.
She looked just like the women at the club.
“That’s what you must become,” she said to her reflection. “You must play his game. Even if it costs you your life. You must try to help him, save him.” Her neck was covered in red marks from where Raphael had strangled her.
He had strangled her.
Maria shuddered, remembering the sinister echo in his stare as he tightened his hands and squeezed. Raphael was every inch an unapologetic, stone-cold killer.
She prayed there was more inside him. Some part of him that was simply lost. Someone good deep inside him that she could appeal to, that she could foster into coming to the surface and ending this awful way of life.
Maria pulled the dress over her head, trying to not let trepidation consume her courage. Her bra and panties came off next. When she turned to face the shower, she couldn’t look back. In all these years since she had been found and freed from William Bridge’s ranch, she had never been brave enough to look at her bare back.
She simply couldn’t relive that time in her life. Not right now. Not now she was faced with this new kind of hell.
Maria exhaled as she stood under the heavy spray. This shower was stronger than those back at the convent. It was opulent, the surrounding tile a rich onyx with a gloss finish. Shampoos and conditioners were on the side shelf. Body and face washes, razors—anything a person could ever need.
Maria took the washcloth that lay untouched on the shelf. She scrubbed every trace of last night from her body—the sin, the smoke, and the acts of depravity she had seen. She knew similar acts awaited her in the coming days, weeks . . . however long it took for Raphael to grow tired of her. She glanced down at her wrists and her ankles, at the redness that lay in rings around her flesh. Her neck was sore to the touch.
Maria closed her eyes and her head fell against the wet tile. She breathed. As she tried to calm, to find her purpose in this moment, she saw Mother Superior in her mind.
“I want to stay behind the monastery’s walls,” Maria said to Mother Superior as the older woman laid a hand on her back. Maria had awoken screaming into the night, her cheeks flooded with tears. “I can’t go out there again…” she whispered. “The world, the cruel men that dwell there . . .” Maria shook her head. “I want to serve God in seclusion. Be His devoted servant.”
Mother Superior’s eyes filled with sympathy. She knew of Maria’s past. She knew the horrors she’d endured. Mother Superior stared out of the small window of Maria’s room. “Jesus walked with the sinners.” Maria stilled and tried to calm her racing heart. “He wouldn’t ignore them, cast them aside like everyone else. He walked beside them, even knowing they committed sins and evil crimes. He talked to them, tried to help them see the light.” Mother Superior turned to Maria. “Being devoted to the church isn’t about being sequestered away. It is about listening and helping when it seems all hope is lost. It is replicating Jesus’s example. Walking with the sinners and helping them find the way.”
Maria shook her head. She knew Mother Superior had lived that life before her old age brought her to Sisters of Our Lady of Grace to retire. Maria envied the older nun. She had counseled prisoners, men who had committed unspeakable crimes. “I . . . I can’t,” Maria said and shook her head, tears tracking down her cheeks and onto the bedding beneath her.
Mother Superior’s hand covered hers in comfort. “You may not be ready yet, my child. But one day you will be. One day something will arise that calls to you. Someone or some cause will arrive at your door, and you will feel the need to become the nun you say you could never be. You will follow Jesus’s path. You will walk side by side, hand in hand with the damned.” Mother Superior smiled. “And you will answer the call, Sister Maria. Your heart will tell you it’s time.”
Maria swallowed the lump that had built in her throat as she recalled her Mother Superior’s words. It was a few years ago, when her soul was still raw and her wounds still open. As she blinked into the shower’s heavy spray, she felt something click inside her. Was this that moment? Maria thought of Raphael, the club, and his hands around her throat. His golden eyes that in one moment bore softness and kindness as he looked at her face, and in the next, cruelty and the promise of certain death.
Maria’s soul was in a raging war. Fear and courage fought for control, both gaining ground back and forth, no clear winner.
But she had to move. She had to keep going.
Maria didn’t know how much time passed as she washed the hair products from her hair. The cleaner she became, the more she felt like herself. She made sure her legs and body were shaved and finally turned off the water.
Maria stepped out of the shower and dried herself with the towel. She drew out every simple movement. Finally, when her teeth had been brushed, and there was nothing left for her to do, she pulled Raphael’s shirt over her head. It smelled just like him. Of fresh water and salt.
Strangely, it made her feel calm.
Taking a deep breath, Maria stepped out into the room. Raphael was exactly where he told her he would be, on the ornate red chair. He held a glass of amber liquid in his hand, swirling it in circles, the liquid lapping the crystal glass. He lowered the glass to the floor.
“I dried my hair the best I could, but there was no brush in the bathroom to comb it through. Or a dryer.”
“Come closer.” Raphael crooked his index finger toward him. Ever the subservient nun, Maria’s feet began moving as soon as the order was issued. It was what she liked most about her daily life. Not being in control, following orders.
Maria stopped when Raphael held up his hand—another silent command. He got to his feet, his tight shirt stretching over his muscled chest to show the toned physique underneath. His head tilted as he studied her makeup-free face. Raphael stalked around where she stood, a full circle. Maria’s legs felt weak, but she remained strong in stature as Raphael drank in his fill. “Sit down on the chair.”
Maria did as instructed. Raphael crossed the room and opened a drawer. Maria’s heart was in her mouth as she wondered what would happen next. If he would touch her. If he would begin his games. If he would bring her pain and take her virginity this very moment.
But when Raphael turned, he held only a hairbrush in his hands. He moved behind her, and with a gentleness she didn’t expect ran the brush through her damp hair. Stroke by stroke, Raphael unknotted every strand until all Maria’s hair was smoothed out. Maria hadn’t dared move the entire time. She had expected sex and roughness. She didn’t expect tenderness. It confused her more than anything else that had happened thus far.
Raphael retrieved a hairdryer and started drying her hair. The hot air relaxed her exhausted body. Her shoulders slumped as sleep began to wrap her in its tight embrace. Maria drifted to a state somewhere between sleep and consciousness. She distantly heard the hairdryer turn off and felt the brush slide through her freshly cleaned hair. She only truly awoke when strong arms lifted her into a warm, hard chest. Maria jumped when she felt the connection of bodies, panicking at being in his embrace. She tried to get down. But Raphael laid her on the bed in the center of the room. “Sleep, little rose,” he murmured with the gentleness of a feather falling on a calm lake. “Time to go to sleep.”
Maria tried to stay awake, but eventually succumbed to the lullaby his deep voice made and closed her eyes, obeying his command without question.
*****
The sound of church bells crept under Maria’s thick blanket of sleep. The comforting dings of the familiar bells made her rise, wiping the sleep from her eyes. It was time for morning prayers before breakfast. Maria moved to throw back her thin convent blanket, but it felt too heavy. Blinking into the low light, Maria cast her tired eyes around her. Her heart sped up; she didn’t recognize her surroundings. She shook her head, memories from the past couple of days beginning to find their place within her mind. The priests, the club, the strangulation . . . Raphael.
Raphael.
Maria jumped from the bed and searched the room. She had no idea what time it was, but the sky was dark beyond the large windows. At first Maria could hear nothing but the heavy pounding of her heart in her ears. Then she detected the sound of the shower.
She spun in the direction of the bathroom and edged toward the door. It was open slightly. Peeking through the inch-wide gap, Maria stared into the huge mirror. The room was freezing, not a patch of steam on the mirror. Her stomach flipped when she saw Raphael in the reflection. Raphael naked, his back toward her. She narrowed her eyes, trying to ignore the quickening of her pulse. Raphael had marks all over his back. The skin was ruined and marred with red.
An odd feeling of kinship tried to invade her mind. Like me . . . a betraying voice whispered. Sympathy flooded her senses, and she couldn’t help but wonder how he had gotten them. Was this why he was like this? Had something happened to him in his life to make him this way?
Maria stepped back from the door when Raphael began to turn, hands soaping his messy dark hair with the shower’s cold water. Her cheeks blazed with heat when she almost caught sight of his groin. She backed away until she hit the edge of the bed. But then her attention was caught by the creak of floorboards outside the room. A thin strip of light slipped underneath the gap at the bottom of the doors. Maria heard the sound of the shower behind her, and before she could convince herself otherwise, her feet were moving to the door.
Do not try to escape . . . you will be punished if you do . . . unbearable pain . . . Maria heard Raphael’s warning clear as day in her mind. But the door and the sounds beyond the room called her name. Raphael hadn’t wanted her to make a noise. That meant there were people close.
People that could maybe help.
In that moment, fear overrode any sense of nunly duty she should offer the sinner in the shower. Mother Superior’s words fled her mind, and self-preservation took the helm. The Maria of old took control, the young girl who had been hurt and tortured . . . and she begged her to run. To not be that girl again. The captive girl who had no fight and just waited to die.
Before she knew it, Maria was quietly unlocking the bolts, and finally she turned the key that sat in the door. Just as the doorknob turned under her hand, the shower turned off and Raphael came through, sweatpants on his bottom half, his damp chest bare and glistening. He stopped dead when he saw her, head shaking slowly from side to side. “Don’t, little rose,” he warned. His voice was soft, placating, but his face had hardened and told her there was not an ounce of gentleness within him right now. His eyes showed a cruelty that scared her to the core.
Maria pulled on the door, and before she could talk herself out of it, she began to run. She heard steady footsteps behind her as she fled down the large hallway. She had no idea where she was running to. But she had to try to escape. “There’s no way out, little rose. There’s nowhere for you to go,” Maria heard from behind her. Her skin broke out in a sweat. Raphael was on her tail. But his voice was distant. He wasn’t running to catch up with her. Instead he was letting her try.
That calmness only came from a predator who knew he would catch his prey.
Maria turned and found a large stairwell. She foolishly cast a look back. Raphael was walking toward her, long strides eating up the carpet beneath his bare feet. His golden stare was locked on her. His tattooed muscled chest was strained, his fists clenched at his sides. Dark eyebrows were pulled down, and his wet hair was falling over his forehead and dripping water onto his olive skin. “I’ll catch you,” he promised.
Maria forced herself to move. She fled down the stairs. When she reached the impressive marbled foyer at the bottom, she looked up to see Raphael calmly descending the steps. Giving herself no time to think, she ran again. Turning right, she powered her bare legs down another hallway. The house was a rabbit’s warren, endless hallways twisting and turning and leading to nothing but more never-ending passages. She was lost, but at least she could no longer hear Raphael behind her. Hearing the low hum of voices from beyond two tall ornate wooden doors, Maria felt the first flicker of hope swell in her chest.
She burst through the doors, turning and slamming them shut behind her. Maria was breathless, her chest aching from exhaustion and the adrenaline surging through her veins. Backing away from the doors, her eyes fixed on the doorknob, keeping watch in case Raphael followed, Maria barely heard the sound of a chair leg scraping on the wooden floor behind her.
She froze. Pulse racing, Maria slowly turned around. Her eyes widened. Around a large dining table sat four men . . . four men who all had their eyes locked on her. Maria stepped back, and back and back until her shoulders slammed into one of the doors behind her. She scanned the table. A man with bright red hair was smirking her way, drinking a large glass of red wine. The man beside him, a blond man with gray eyes, curled his lip in disgust when his gaze dropped to her bare legs. Maria tried to pull down the hem of the shirt she still wore, aware she had nothing on underneath. Her eyes next found a man with long brown hair that fell below his shoulders, eyes as dark as midnight. He was licking his lips as he drank her in, his head tilting as he studied her every inch. Finally, her eyes fell on a man with black hair and ice-blue eyes. Maria almost cried out loud in horror as she watched him cut his wrist with the bladed ring on the tip of his thumb. Blood sprouted from the vein, and he dipped another of his fingers in the blood, as if it were paint, and smudged it onto his lips, sucking at the wound and swallowing the blood down. His lips curled back and revealed pointed teeth . . . teeth of a vampire.
Maria scrambled against the door, as if she could disappear through the hard planes. What is this place? Who and what are these men?
Another man with dark hair and blue eyes came through one of the other two doors leading to the room. He wore a strange collar around his neck. He stopped dead when he saw Maria. She watched him close his eyes and take a deep breath, as though he were fighting for control.
“Well, what do we have here?” The red-haired man got to his feet, the first to speak. He kept his wine in his hand. He wore a green dress shirt that was open to the middle of his chest, and black slacks. The shirt matched the color of his startling eyes. He took a step forward. Maria’s nails tried to find purchase on the door. It was no use. They scraped against the solid wood, digging into it. “It seems Little Red Riding Hood has lost her way and found herself in the wolf’s den.”
One by one the men got to their feet. But Maria felt no sense of good coming from this room. Instead the air was thick with malintent, shrouded in darkness. The looks and the hungry eyes made only one promise—death and pain . . . They are just like Raphael.
As if he’d heard Maria’s thought, the man with the collar around his neck opened his eyes, blatant hunger in his disturbing gaze, and charged in her direction. Maria held her breath, unable to move, paralyzed by the stark fear spiking her blood. She tried to breathe, to find some strength to make her feet move. But just as she knew it was fruitless, the man dropped to his knees, the cords in his neck protruding as he threw his head back and roared out a pained scream.
Maria scurried away to the safety of the flocked red-wallpapered wall, then she looked up. Her heart jump-started to life when she saw a blond man with gentle curls framing his face watching her in utter dismay. But that wasn’t what made her almost cry in relief. That belonged to the shirt and collar he wore. The collar that brought her more comfort than anything else in the world.
That of a priest.
“Please . . .” she begged as she met his bright-blue eyes. “Help me, Father . . . help me.”
The door to her right burst open, and Raphael stormed through. Maria watched him take in the man on the floor. Raphael’s face flamed with rage. His head whipped to her cowering by the wall, and he moved to where she stood, blocking her with his body.
“No one comes near her,” he said, calmly, but each word was laced with threat. “Brothers or not, I’ll kill you if you do. She is mine.” Raphael’s eyes slammed to the man on the floor. The man in the collar who was now looking his way. “Try that again, Diel, and you and me are done.”
The man on the floor’s eyes switched from coldness to sadness within seconds as he looked at Raphael. Strangely, it made Maria’s heart ache.
“Raphael.” The blond priest stepped forward. He was holding something in his hand. A remote of some description. When the man on the floor flinched at the priest’s closeness, Maria realized it must control the collar around his throat. “What have you done?”
Raphael backed Maria against the wall with his body. Maria felt the heat from Raphael’s back seep through her shirt as he tried to block her view. His scent surrounded her, invading her senses like a conquering army. She closed her eyes in shame and confusion when, somehow, it seemed to calm her frayed nerves.
“Gabriel, get back,” Raphael threatened.
Maria frowned. Gabriel? Raphael? She recalled the men around the table. There were seven of them all together.
Seven.
Just like the archangels.
“You’ve broken the commandments,” Gabriel said. “Why? Why would you do that? You’ve . . .” Something seemed to occur to him. His eyes widened and flickered to Maria, then moved back to Raphael. “The rosary you found,” he said, and Maria stilled. The rosary? Gabriel came closer still. Raphael backed into Maria until he couldn’t move anymore. She struggled to breathe with the weight of him pressed against her. But Maria idly noted his body wasn’t as tense around Gabriel as it had been the others.
He trusted him. Raphael trusted this priest.
“Where did the rosary come from, Raphe? Tell me.” Gabriel came close enough to study Maria behind Raphael’s wide chest. Gabriel closed his eyes. He seemed to be fighting a battle of some description on his face. “The hair.” Maria couldn’t help but hear the strained sadness in his voice. “Her hair . . .” Maria glanced down at her long hair, now clean and smoothed out by Raphael’s hands. What did Gabriel mean? “Raphael . . . they knew about that preference.”
Raphael didn’t say anything. Maria dropped her eyes, lost as to what was happening. But this close to Raphael’s back, the only sight that met her were the marks she had seen in the shower, now in full, close view. Her stomach fell on seeing his back completely ravaged. The flesh was littered with red mark after red mark. There wasn’t a piece of skin that wasn’t touched. His face was perfect, his chest, but this . . . It was where Raphael’s imperfections lay, clustered into one masterpiece of mutilation. She wondered what horrors were trapped under the heavy scarring of the rough skin and scarlet welts.
The rush of empathy she had felt toward him when she saw him in the shower returned, so thick and fast that she fought the need to reach out her hand and place it on his scars.
They are like mine, like Jesus’s stripes. Just as that image came to mind, she glanced at the upturned cross that still hung in his ear. Saint Peter’s cross. An image of humility and heroic martyrdom. But neither of those things bore any relation to the apparent evil that ran in Raphael’s veins. The malevolence that smothered his soul. But the lash scars . . . the pain he must have endured to get them . . . Why had someone hurt him in such a way?
Maria felt too much. She always had. She couldn’t bear to see another person in pain. Even this man . . . even the man who wanted to kill her.
“I’m taking her with me,” Gabriel said, pulling Maria’s attention from the nature of Raphael’s soul to a fellow follower of Christ.
“No,” Raphael snarled.
“Raphe, you’ve defied the commandments. You’ve put us all in danger. Do you understand that? Can you even comprehend the severity of your betrayal?”
It was obvious from Raphael’s livid expression that he didn’t, or he simply didn’t care. “You’re not taking her,” he spat. Gabriel’s eyes immediately filled with sadness, with pity.
Gabriel didn’t look back at the men behind him as he said, “Restrain him and take him to the cell in the Tomb.” Raphael’s body went rigid as the redhead, the blond man, and the man with long brown hair reluctantly took hold of his arms and pulled him away from her.
“No! NO!” Raphael tried to fight the men off, but they held him captive and removed him from the room. The man with the collar got to his feet, watching Gabriel with cautious eyes.
“You good?” Gabriel asked him.
“Yes,” he replied with gritted teeth.
Finally, the man with blood staining his lips followed the others without a word.
Gabriel held up his hands. “I won’t hurt you. I promise. But please, follow me.” Maria didn’t really have a choice. She followed the priest out of the dining room, across the vast foyer and to a locked door. A day room was on the other side. Gabriel handed her a bottle of water. “I need to speak to Raphe. I’ll lock you in here. No one has the key but me. You’ll be safe.”
“You’re not like them,” Maria said as Gabriel turned to leave.
Gabriel looked over his shoulder and gave her a sad smile. “Don’t let the clothes deceive you.” He ran his hand over his shirt. “I’m more like them than you know.” With that he left the room, leaving her alone. Maria curled up on the chair. The blue and white floral wallpaper in the large room seemed to close in on her. Clutching the bottle of water to her chest, she prayed to God for guidance. What was she meant to do? Stay and try to minister to Raphael’s darkness? Or beg to leave? To escape this strange and dark place?
I’ll leave it to you, Lord, to show me the way. Whatever you decide, I will obey.
As Maria endeavored to remain calm, she couldn’t get the sight of Raphael’s back from her mind or the echo of his words in her head . . . She is mine . . .
She is mine.